


By the Light of Lothal's Moons

by kgirl1



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Character Study, Gen, post s03e08 An Inside Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kgirl1/pseuds/kgirl1
Summary: The last time he had uttered that phrase, it had been to Jarrus and his Padawan. Would it be the last time he ever used it?





	

What was he doing?

Sweet _kriff_ , what was he doing?

Kallus had heard tales of the Grand Admiral’s mercilessness, of the Chiss’s cruel, calculating nature and absolute devotion to his cause. It was the stuff of nightmares.

And now, he was intentionally creating the opportunity for himself to be subjected to it.

 _What_ was he _doing?_

His initial fears had revolved around how to make his escape, rather than discovery. Kallus had full confidence that he could continue giving the rebels intel without getting caught. He knew the Empire inside and out, forwards and back, could recite any given page of their policies as quickly (probably more quickly) than a nursery rhyme. As long as he was careful, they’d never have a chance. Arrogance was easily the institution’s greatest flaw.

However, this admiral didn’t seem to be familiar with, or even capable of, making errors. Kallus had to admit he was impressed by Thrawn’s strategy, with the kind of admiration that carried a dark undercurrent of dread. The admiral was almost inhumanly calculating and shrewd; had he not held such an odd affinity for art, Kallus might have pitted him for a super tactical droid in disguise.

The obsession with art was a little strange. Kallus had served under plenty of Imperials, all of whom had their quirks, ranging from slightly peculiar to downright psychopathic. But art… art was a new one. He’d heard tales from Captain Slavin that, once dismissed as foolish rumors, were starting to gain speculation as truth.

Kallus pitied the man and envied him— while Slavin’s experience with Thrawn had been more disconcerting than most (and that was saying something), at least the man didn’t have to work with him every day. No, that luxury was left to Kallus and Pryce, and Pryce didn’t provide much in terms of company or comfort. In her own way, she was a lot like the Grand Admiral: merciless, driven to the point of obsession, and so devoted to the cause that she was unable to separate herself from it.

They’d eaten a meal together, once, in the mess hall; the woman had talked about the rebels and the future of Lothal incessantly, only stopping to chew. The only difference from one of their briefings was that there’d been a substance that vaguely resembled food in front of him. He found himself missing Tua, but there was no time to think about that.

The speed with which the Empire had filled her place, without so much as a memorial service or funeral, still haunted him. It had haunted him nonstop on Geonosis, most of all when the rebels came for Zeb, and he would have been lying to say that it wasn’t partially out of selfishness, out of knowing he’d face a similar fate. He wasn’t sure which was worse, dying or being forgotten.

It had taken Kallus weeks to find the right person to contact to see if word had been sent to Tua’s family; none such correspondence had been sent. Later he found himself with pen poised over paper, hundreds of words inside of him but no idea what to say.

_We regret to inform you that Maketh Tua has been killed in honorable service to her Empire._

_She will be missed._

Those 21 words had taken him six hours. It didn’t feel right starting the letter with “we”. Not because it was a lie, not because he was only one person, but because at that moment, he didn’t want to represent the Empire. It disgusted him, his connection to this organization that had sat idly by when one of its most loyal workers had fallen, that had replaced her without so much as a moment of reverence.

He even resented that the Empire would receive credit for a letter it never intended to send.

The word “regret” was as much of a lie as “we”. And even he was starting to debate the definition of “honorable service”. He felt dirty, after sending it out, even though it had been the right thing to do. With the exception of the last four words, the entire thing felt like a lie, a flimsy charade. The Empire had no regrets, felt no loss. Tua’s information had already been deleted from the databanks; it had taken him two more weeks just to find where to send the damn thing.

The worst part of it all was knowing that no one, not one soul in that blasted behemoth that was their Empire, would ever go through the same trouble for him.

It wouldn’t matter; he didn’t have family to worry about him. Kallus had been an orphan for most of his life; after aging out of the system, the Empire was the only place he had to go, the only figure to whom he guessed he could turn. Shelter, credits, a stable career— the organization certainly didn’t seem like it was going anywhere. And it had treated him well, or as well as he was used to. He had a room to himself, clothes that were assigned to him, food or some travesty of it available three times a day. He was surrounded by hundreds of people who he knew but didn’t know a thing about. In a way, it felt like he had never left the orphanage.

He had done better with the Empire than he had anticipated— top of his class in the Academy, promotion after promotion. ISB was something he had only dreamed about as a cadet.

He had never dreamed that— after coming so far, accomplishing so much, proving everyone who had ever called him an urchin or street rat wrong— he would still feel the emptiness that had haunted the center of his chest his entire life. It was the emptiness of never having quite enough on your plate to make you full, of needing just one more blanket to keep you warm at night, of constantly wearing secondhand clothes with sleeves too short, hems too long and stitches too loose. It was a thousand little absences in his life that had somehow accumulated into a deep, overwhelming pit of nothingness, sinking into him so deeply that he couldn’t fill it with everything in this world and three others.

But there were rare moments when he could forget about it.

And that day with Zeb, on Geonosis, he had.

It had knocked back into him the moment the rebel ship landed; starting at his throat and sinking all the way down into his injured leg, into his boots and freezing feet, reminding him that _no, you will never have anything like they do, because you are nothing._ Reminding him that he would never have anything in this world that felt like it fit, felt like it filled him the same way this emptiness did.

That was just the way it was. It didn’t bother him much, it was always there, like a toothache that had gone too dull to ever be dealt with. In a way, its consistency was comforting; the only companion that had stayed with him his entire life.

It had cried out in betrayal, when his finger had hovered over the button that would send a message to the rebel cell. Every ounce of emptiness within him howled in fury and protest, as he debated opening the line, starting a chain of correspondence, opening himself to a future that would wildly diverge from the one he had always imagined. _This is not who we are,_ it screamed. _This was not in the plan._

 _This could fulfill you in a way that nothing ever has,_ something else whispered. And he listened to it.

Kallus pushed down.

“This is Phoenix Squadron. Identify yourself.”

“This is Fulcrum. By the light of Lothal’s moons.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! First AO3 post... I hope you liked it. I'm still figuring out the site but I'd love any feedback you have. :)


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